Mile Markers? Who cares?

I was just talking to José. People have been giving him (and I presume Wally too) a hard time about the lack of mile markers.

While it was a shock not to have them, I don’t think their absence was a significant issue. At least not for me. In some ways it might have been a plus.

Looking at my time at the Los Olivos chip mat, (and guessing a distance of ~5.7 miles) I see I was running rather slowly on that initial uphill part — roughly 6:30s. If I had tried to run that at 6:20s or 6:15s as I had planned I might have been completely burned out by the time I got to the part where I could run fast. Instead I ran what felt right, and it seems to have been right.

I had a great race, and would like to say, as publicly as I can, that I don’t really care about the mile markers. Their absence makes for a better story

So thank you Wally and José for all your work, it was a great course.

Over the hills and far away…

Santa Barbara Wine Country Half Marathon

The town of Santa Ynez is about a 40 minutes drive from the barbarian city, up over the mountains and down into the river valley on the other side — probably far away by MacHeath’s standards. There is no safe bike route there so I don’t know it well.

I thought I’d visit it the day before the race to look at the course and mark out the 1/4 and 1/2 mile points. I inveigled my friend Kathy into joining me on a bike ride to go over the course. It was cold and overcast in SB. We drove out with bikes and measuring wheel. It was warm and sunny in SY. I measured out and chalked in my marks (Kathy waiting patiently as I did so) and we set out.

I stopped immediately, to take a picture. I ended up doing that quite a lot. Kathy was very patient with me. I knew I wouldn’t be able to do it during the race.

The route starts in Old Town Santa Ynez and heads through fields and farm land to Los Olivos (roughly parallel to Hwy 154) (a long uphill), then it leaves 154, climbs a very steep hill and goes down Ballard Canyon to Solvang (a nice long downhill). Just before Solvang there is another steep hill — not as long, perhaps not as steep, but I was expecting to be tired by then. Intermittent rolling hills through-out. The finish was somewhere in Solvang, I didn’t bother to find it on the bike.

It’s actually quite pretty — prettier now on a warm sunny afternoon than a chilly overcast morning in the middle of a race.

Rusty had told me to try the same strategy as I had on the 10 miler — go out at 6:15 pace and try to pick it up on the way back. As always this seemed as though it would be a stretch. Run a longer race at a pace that was hard for a shorter one? I was concerned about the hills — more concerned once I biked them. Rusty argued the course was easy because last year everyone had PRed on it. We discovered that one reason the course was easy was that it was a couple of hundred meters short — but even accounting for that Rusty said everyone had PRed. I managed to talk him down to a 6:20 pace — and then immediately decided that I would try to run 6:15s anyway.

This is what passes for wisdom in my brain.

I was up long before dawn race day morning. I did my stretches and had a light breakfast. I checked the weather — there’s always the chance Santa Ynez will be hot at this time of year, previous weather reports had predicted it would be cold (41°F). If cold I’d want layers, if hot I’d want sun-screen. NOAA predicted that it would be 40° at 5am, even though it also said the current temperature was 49° (at 4:50am). A 50° temperature would be perfect. I’d want layers while I was waiting, and maybe gloves for the run, but a singlet would be fine when running.

Into the car and off. Pitch black when I set out. As I headed up the pass I started to see the mountains and the clouds bumping into them — pre-dawn light. On the other side the fog/clouds were blowing up the Santa Ynez river from the sea alternately covering and uncovering bits of the valley below.

I parked about a mile from the start and took a shuttle bus to it. Then I went out on my warmup run. This had a dual purpose: 1) the chalk marks I made the day before were only at the side of the road and I wanted to make them more visible, 2) I needed to warm up. Just after I passed my 1/8 mile mark I saw chalk arrows coming in from the side.

The start of the course was completely different from last year. I knew the old course was short and they were going to fix it — but I hadn’t thought they’d fix it here. Damnation. I didn’t have my wheel, I couldn’t remeasure things. I’d just have to do without, and correct my pace at the first mile mark, just like everyone else. Fufbiggles!

Still, I needed to continue my run as a warmup, so I did that and looped back to the start.

Yup. The start was essentially at the same place, but it was facing the other direction. We were to run into town, take a side street, twist around, and run out again rather than running directly out of town as they had last year. Oh well.

Time to get rid of my warm layer and take it over to the bag drop off. I couldn’t find the drop off. I wandered all over the place. Eventually Heather told me to ask the MC, he pointed to the “saloon” and said over there. I went inside. Everyone seemed to be lined out going to the bathroom. Eventually I asked again. Just out front. I went out front. Not on the porch. Eventually I found them and left my stuff.

Did my strides.

The Barbarian contingent started to coalesce at the start line around Micah and Aaron (our fastest runners). Teage, Leroy, Ricky, Jeff, Mariann, Monica, Melissa. M. (and me). All of us are fast enough runners to claim a spot near the start. I figured I’d stand in the second row behind Micah. Wasn’t sure what this crowd would be like, I might not deserve a spot in the front, but definitely in the second row — and standing behind Micah meant I knew he wouldn’t slow me down

Mariann asked how I’d gotten there, and when I said I had driven she berated me soundly for contributing to global warming. As she should. I had tried to car-pool, had asked three people, but none wanted to go with me.

I did some more strides.

It was now past 7, the supposed start time. We were starting to get cold. It’s one thing to run in shorts and a singlet in 50° weather, it’s quite another to stand around chatting.

Tum-ty-tum-tum.

Quite a long wait. What’s the good of warming up if you just have to stand around and get cold?

They are saying something on the loud speaker, but it’s completely inaudible here at the start line. The police car in front starts to move, everyone crouches down, and we are off.

I don’t want to go out too fast, I have to guess my pace though. I think I have gone too fast, Ricky’s ahead of me, but he goes out even more “too fast” than I and he’s not far ahead. I slow. A bit. We twist through Santa Ynez and then are out with a straight road (and a hill) ahead of us. A few people pass me. Good. Four minutes out the lead woman passes me with a couple of male runners.

Up this hill, and down and up. Left turn, down a very steep hill and up another steep hill. Then right for some relatively even terrain. I glance at my watch: 6:40. Oops. Either I’m going very slowly or I missed the first mile marker. Damn. First I can’t use my own marks, then I miss the official marks.

Well I will do what I can based on feel and the people around me. Ricky’s ahead. So I’m not horribly fast. Lead woman is ahead, that might be reasonable, or might not, we’ll see how things go.

Slowly it dawns on me — there are NO mile marks. No kilometer marks. No indication what-so-ever of how far we’ve gone. And since this year’s course starts differently people can’t even use remembered locations of last year’s marks.

How interesting. That’s going to make pacing complicated. I haven’t raced without marks since — well, since ever. Every single serious race I’ve been in since (and including) High School has been marked. (Later Wally tells me that everyone thought someone else was doing the mile marks and no one coordinated).

Every now and then Rusty has us train without looking at our watches. Running without mile marks has the same effect — you don’t know how fast you are going and must develop an inner sense of what is appropriate. If you know your speed then you have a goad not to run too slowly, but, conversely you might miss the fact that you can actually push a little harder than you thought you could.

I’m running by myself at the moment. Am I pushing myself hard enough? Every now and then I look up and the lead woman is further in front than she was just a moment before. I pick up the pace, but I fear I lose focus again. Strangely it doesn’t seem to occur to me that she might just be faster.

After 21 minutes I pass Ricky. I hope he’ll run with me (he’s also hoping to run about a 6:20 pace), and I encourage him to do so. But his footsteps fade behind me. After the 10miler, and without any mile markers to reassure me of pacing I am desperate to have someone to run with. The clump around the lead woman is in sight, but is too far off to be very motivating.

On the bike ride the road verge was covered in California Poppies. I’m used to seeing French Poppies in the fields as I bicycle through France, but I’d never seen a stand of California Poppies quite like this. Of course this is the Wine Country half-marathon, perhaps I should expect it to look a bit like France

Today I don’t even notice the poppies as I run past. I’m too concerned about keeping up with the guy in front (who has dropped back a bit from the lead woman).

We’re coming into Los Olivos now. And the relay transfer point. In the old course that was at 5.6 miles. I don’t know what it is in the new. 5.7 maybe? my watch says 37:?? minutes (or was it 36? I can’t remember). Great. What’s 37 minutes divided by 5.7, in your head while running at race pace? remember to multiply by 60 to get seconds first. I don’t have the energy to work it out. Doesn’t help with pacing much.

Approaching the transfer point I hear a cheer go up for the first woman. I start counting. I figure when I hear a cheer for me I’ll know roughly how many seconds ahead she is. Of course no one cares as much about the 15th man, or whatever. I hear a few scattered cheers around 40. Were those seconds? Did I count too slowly? too quickly? Roughly 200m ahead — Very roughly.

A few people shout my name. Obviously none of the locals knows me, I don’t think any of my friends are doing the relay, but perhaps so. A little later it dawns on me: My name is printed on my bib in this race. In large friendly letters. They just read it.

And then a friend does come up on his bike, a guy from my pottery class, his wife and sister are running and I guess he’s here to cheer them on. He cheers me on now. (Thank you Kyle)

There’s a chip mat here. But no indication of distance.

I drink some water at the aid station. I’m not thirsty, it’s not a hot day. This turns out to be the last time I drink. It’s only a half. It’s hard to drink. I can drink ok at a 6:30 pace, but 6:15 (or whatever) just seems too hard.

We twist around a little more. And then comes

the HILL

I’m afraid I’ll lose the guy in front of me. I have lost the lead woman. We go up. I slow. He slows more. I catch him just before the top, and pass him. He cheers me on, and doesn’t try to hang with me. Damn it. I want someone to run with. As I turn the bend and head down the other side there’s a stunning view. I’m not stunned today, but I was stunned when I biked it. Kathy had to wait a long time here. On one side is a vineyard, above it a tree-lined drive leading to a winery. On the other side yellow hills covered with flowering mustard.

But today I barely glance at it. I’m more concerned with finding someone to help me with pacing. I come further round the bend — far down in the valley I see the lead woman, all by herself, but much closer to me is someone who was running with her and has now dropped back. The sight of him spurs me on and I take off down that hill in the hope of running with him.

The canyon opens up a bit and is quite lovely, with dry california grass on rolling hills intersperced by a few oak trees, some badly distorted by the wind.

Of course I’m not noticing this now. My eyes are on the guy in front. Basically we are going downhill but there are occasional small hills. I stop worrying about going too slowly, I just run.

I seem to be gaining on him.

But very slowly.

Sometimes he pulls further ahead.

It’s a real race. Of course we’re not going all out. We’re not much past the half-way point, there’s still a long road ahead, but none-the-less, it is a race. Actually, in my opinion, this is the real race. Not the final dash for the finish, but the long slow process of overtaking the guy in front.

At 57minutes from the start I pass him. The lead woman is just barely in sight on a long straight stretch. Can I catch her? I’ve caught the guys who were running with her at the start…

And then there are footsteps behind me. They’re coming up fastish. I don’t think I can stay ahead. I try to go a little faster, but I really can’t. Oh well. I guess the guy is faster than I thought and got a second wind once I was in front… But it isn’t that guy. It’s someone else. I cheer him and and he says he doesn’t really count, he’s only a relay runner (the relay runners only run half as far each, so they can go a little faster and it doesn’t really count when they pass you — or at least that’s what I say to console myself).

Whew.

I try to keep up with him. He slowly pulls away; I gain some ground on a hill, then he gains on the downhill, and so on.

At 1:03:?? I pass a mark on the road saying 5k. This is from some other race. I’m guessing it is approximately 5k from Solvang. Not sure exactly where in Solvang, but it means there’s only about 5k left. If I’m running 6:15s then 5k is a little under 20 minutes. Which means I’ll finish very close to 1:23. With luck I’ll break 1:23. Without luck I’ll be very close to it.

And then I remember there’s still one bad hill to run. This is not going to be a fast 5k. I’ll probably be just over 1:23. That won’t be bad. In fact that will be quite good, but it will be the slow end of my pace window rather than the fast end.

At the 4K mark my watch reads 1:07:?? so I’m going close to 4min/km which is what I expected. (The seconds on my stopwatch get small after an hour, and I can’t read them easily when running, which means I usually don’t. So I could be running 4:59 or 3:01 min/km. But I’m probably about 4).

At the 3K mark my watch reads 1:11:??. And then there are more footsteps behind me. It’s the number two woman (I haven’t seen the number one woman in ages). I realize that a couple of times recently I’ve heard people say “#2!”, and I’d puzzled over that. I never look back. Maybe the relay guy is #2 in the relay? Maybe I’m #2 in my age group? (my age is printed on my bib, but in small unfriendly letters — still they might have read it). Now it is clear.

And then … the second HILL.

Not as bad, but we really are tired. And I’m not catching up with people now, two have already passed me so I’m a bit demoralized — on the other hand, I’ve definitely got two people to run with! Up we go, all three of us (the relay guy, #2, and me). We seem to stay in about the same relative positions.

Finally the hill ends, and we’re in the outskirts of Solvang. Houses. Another little hill. A school. And there’s Hwy 246 ahead. A volunteer cheers us and says “1/2 a mile to go.” I’d hoped we were closer, then I remind myself, the volunteers don’t have a very accurate idea of the course (usually) he probably just means we’re close. I know that.

I worry about 246. It’s the main highway in this part of the world. I assume there will be cops directing traffic. Obviously they’ll let the lead guy through, and the number 2 woman, but I’m some distance back. Will they think they have time to let a few cars through before I get there, and will I have to slow?

I try to speed up.

Photo © 2008 by Dennis J Mihora

But 246 is completely closed to traffic. I needn’t have worried. And almost immediately we make a right turn and — there’s the finish! Perhaps 200m away. I find I have a little bit left, and for once I can kick. I’m trying to catch the number two woman, and then I can see the clock 1:22:55 (this time I do see the minutes) and I really want to break 1:23. There are two chip mats. I pass over the first before the deadline, but the second is where the finish sign is and I see 1:23 just before I get there. And on the other side of the line I pass the number two woman. Ah well.

As we are coming up to the finish the announcer is extolling the number two woman. He doesn’t even mention me until I’m well across the line. Blatant sexism. Hrumph. Why am I just an after-thought?

Doesn’t matter. I’m really quite pleased. Not sure what the exact time was, but approximately a 2 minute PR for a half marathon. That’s great.

I congratulate the woman I finished just behind, she thanks me for helping her earlier, I thank her for helping me later (that is — for being an inspiration by running ahead).

We pass into the food tent. And blink, Ricky is there. Rusty comes up on his bike (he rode beside Micah) and congratulates me and tells me Micah was second at 1:09 and Aaron finished at 1:10. And blink, Jeff is there. We complain about not having any mile markers. After a bit Melissa and then Mariann and Monica join us. We’re all amazed not to have had mile markers.

Time passes. I wander around looking for my gear bag. It’s chilly now I’ve stopped running. Still overcast. I can’t find the bag claim at first, but eventually I do. There doesn’t seem to be anyone to ask where things are.

Now I wander around trying to find where the preliminary results are posted. No one seems to know. Eventually I find Micah instead. We chat for a bit, and he suggests I go to the timing tent. I can’t figure out how to get there for a while. Eventually I figure out which back streets of Solvang are unblocked and will lead me to the tent. No sign of results — but — Oh, joy — the printer is working now and, yes, those face-down pages coming out look as though they have results on them. But — But — the printer stops, and no one picks them up. They just sit there. I am hesitant to disturb the people in the tent thinking they have important work to do.

I go looking for someone who might know something. I find Jeff. Since RoboBank seems to be the main sponsor, I think he might know. He doesn’t. But also wants to see the results. We head back to the timing tent. And — how odd — the result pages are being passed from hand to hand. No one is posting them. How extremely disorganized. Eventually I get a look at the page I want. 45-49:

“Jeff, I won!”

One of the joys of racing outside Santa Barbara is that it is possible that none of Fred, Scott, Shiggy or Travis will run. It is possible for me to win my age group. It is possible that Eric Forte and Terry Howell won’t run either and so I might even win masters (which I did). Er — Thank you for not racing today, I do appreciate it

Jeff is also pleased. He’s third in his group. (Todd Booth didn’t make it over the hills either)

No one seems to know when the awards ceremony will be. It would be kind of neat to stand on the podium in first place — but it would be even neater to have something to eat next week. After waiting around for about an hour and a half, I give up, and head back over the mountains to the Farmers’ market before it closes. Jeff says he’ll pick up my winnings — appropriately enough, a bottle of wine.

I liked the course, had a great run, and will probably do it again. But I hope it’s better organized next year.

Someone to run with!

Two weeks before the race Rusty told me to shoot for a 6:10 pace. I balked at that, I didn’t think I was in very good shape, after all I’d just done the Orchard to Ocean 10k at a 6:15 pace, I didn’t believe I’d be able to better that. So the next week Rusty said do the first half at 6:15, and then do what you can for the second (that is — go faster). Well, that seemed more reasonable.

I was concerned that I’d go out too fast. I always do. O2O hadn’t had a half mile point marked, and my first mile was 25seconds faster than my average. Not good. So I took out my wheel on Thursday, rode down to the start, and put marks on the curb to show the ¹/₈th, ¼th and ½ mile points. Or that was my intent. José had already marked the ½ mile point (Yay!)

The course runs out 5 miles along the waterfront, into Montecito, around a post and then back on basically the same route. So the 4 mile mark is also the 6 mile mark, etc.

I volunteered for packet-pickup on Friday. I like doing that, it makes me feel part of the race already and I start getting excited.

During a quiet period, a homeless guy (I assume) rode up on his bike and started ruttling around in the dumpster. Then he moved over to us. He asked if he could have one of the keychains the Addidas rep was handing out, and I let him. Then he asked what was going on; I explained there was a 10mile race tomorrow and asked if he wanted to run. Not any more, he replied, but back in the day — why in high school he’d run 10miles 1500yards in an hour and was the third best in the nation, and his best marathon was a 2:30.

Wow. I guess it had never occurred to me that a homeless guy might have been an excellent runner in his youth. And I can’t imagine that someone who wasn’t a runner would know what numbers would impress yet be believable. Rather an eye-opener for me. We chatted a bit longer, and he rode off.

Race day morning I got to the start a bit earlier than normal because I wanted to draw lines across the road where I’d previously marked only the curb (marks on the curb don’t get smeared into oblivion by traffic, but they aren’t readily visible to runners).

Two miles of warm-up. Or there-abouts. As I loop back I run through the beach-front soccer field. In the middle of the field is a sign “No parking — SB Streets Div”. This amused me all the way back to the race start. A car would have to go to extreme lengths to reach that field.

Take off my sweats. Put on my magic shoes. Um. It’s chilly. Do I want a jacket? Do I want gloves? Hmm. Probably not. I’m manage, and then I’ll warm up.

Some strides.

Time to line up.

None of the other runners seems to know where the start line is. First I see some trying to line up at the half marathon start (there’s no mark on the road for it, but there is a curbside mark); I direct them to the real start. I do some more strides, and then head there myself. No one is at the line. Everybody seems to have lined up about 20feet back from it.

I stand at the line.

I figure I’m fast enough.

Eventually other people join me.

We start.

I’m trying not to take off too fast. I let Ricky and Andrea go. But even so… at the ¹/₈th mile I’m at 41 seconds. That’s a 5:24 mile pace. I want 46 or 47 for a 6:15 pace. I slow a bit. At the ¼mile mark I’m at 85. Better, but that’s still a 5:40 pace. At the ½ mile mark 2:57, again, better, but still too fast.

Jeff has joined me. He wants to chat. We’re going faster than 6 minute pace, and he wants to chat? I didn’t even realize I could. But I guess I can, at least this early in a race. Jeff’s goal pace is 6:24 (~64min) and he is also aware that we’ve gone out too fast (but less fast than many). We joke about how we’ll pass many of them later (or we hope we will). Jeff speculates that some are only running the concurrent 5K and so can afford to go fast now.

At the one mile mark 6:16. Almost perfect for me. Little fast for Jeff. But he says he’ll run a little fast while the adreneline is up. We keep going together. At the 5K turn around (approximately 1.5 miles) I comment that very few of the people ahead of us have turned back. So let’s hope we do pass them later.

At the two mile mark I see I’ve slowed too much: 6:21. Not horrible, but it turns out to be my slowest mile. So I pick my pace a bit and leave Jeff.

I’m gaining on Andrea. Judging by O2O she’d be another reasonable person to run with. But when I reach her she’s going more slowly than I’d hoped and I pass her too. And then I pass Ricky. Ricky did the “Tough Enough” race last week — in the horrible heat, so I’m not surprised to pass him. Another half mile later I see the number 4 woman is passing the number 3 woman and the guy who is running beside #3. And I end up passing all of them at pretty much that moment. Pushes me out into the street a bit but there’s no traffic, so that’s ok.

And then I hear footsteps behind me. The woman who was #4 and is now #3 is pacing me, just off my shoulder. OK. She can try to keep up.

As we twist around the bird sanctuary my eyes turn toward the mountains (and I happen to look up). A bit of sun has broken through the cloud cover and Montecito peak stands out in the morning glow. Quite lovely. But the road twists again and it’s gone. Anyway I can’t pay it much attention. I need to run now.

At the 3 mile mark I see that, er, I was going too fast: 6:03. The combination of picking up the pace after the previous too slow mile, and the joy of passing people has pushed me too fast. I’d better slow here, especially as the first hill is around the next bend. I expect the woman will pass me as I slow, but she doesn’t. We go up the hill together.

I get a little ahead, but she closes the gap on the flat at the top. Coming down the hill, I get a little ahead again, but she closes the gap again. Neat. This is kind of fun. I can’t really see her, she’s mostly behind me, and there’s no way I’m going to turn my head and look back. She isn’t someone I know.

We both click our watches at the 4mile mark: 6:14. Perfect for me.

We both grab cups at the water stand. I have great difficulty drinking. I’m squeezing it too tight or something. I get very little into me and go off into a coughing fit for a bit. She doesn’t pass me.

The next mile is a gradual up hill that twists through Montecito. And here comes Micah on his way back, and someone I don’t know and Aaron, and a bit later Garrett. I cheer my friends. The woman seems to know some of the others, and one of them calls her by name, but I don’t catch it.

We pass the #2 woman. We reach the turn-around at 5 miles: 6:14 — total time for the first 5 miles 31:10, at home I see that that is almost exactly a 6:15 pace for the first half (5 seconds too fast), just what Rusty ordered.

Time to pick it up a bit? This is a downhill mile. We pass the guy in front. And now no one is in sight in front of us (but it’s very twisty here). Far more interesting than the people ahead are the ones behind, and after the turn-around we’re running against the main body of the race, and I get to cheer them on. And they cheer me on.

The woman says “You seem popular, George” (people have shouted it). I ask for her name, “Jen”. I thank her for running with me. It really is great. She is forcing me to work, I don’t dare slow and take it easy lest she pass me. And that’s about as much chatting as I (we) have breath for at this point.

We twist back through Montecito. Back to the water stand. Given the difficulty I had last time, I figure I’d better not try for more water. Jen, however, gets more. This proves a mistake. She drops back slightly, and she never catches up again.

At the six/four mile mark: 6:06. Nice. I did pick it up. Next mile has the hills, but it’s still 6:13. I pass some walkers. One says “16″ too me. Neat, that probably means I’m 16th over-all (I was actually 17th at that point, perhaps she meant 16th male, perhaps she miscounted). Thanks. And then behind me I hear “2″, so Jen isn’t far back and she’s the number two woman. And then — I’m out of the bendy area and I can see down the long straight section that runs for miles.

There is no one visible ahead.

Looking at the race results I see the next clump was about a minute and a half ahead of me. That may not sound like much but it’s a ¼ mile at this pace. Oh, there are faint shapes far in the distance, but they provide no inspiration — I’ll never catch them.

An’, ah look down duh roa~d–
And duh road so lo~nesome.
Lord, I gots to walk down da lo~nesome road
I gots to walk down it b~y m~yself.

Traditional spiritual from the Charleston low-country

Well, I gots to run down it, but it’s still lonesome. I was thinking just the other day that “the loneliness of the long distance runner” only really applies to the winner (ignoring all the other connotations in the store). But today it’s applying to me too. There’s too much of a gap to the group ahead.

I can’t hear Jen behind me. There is no one visible in front. It’s hard to keep going. 6:16. Ug. I can do better than that! But the next mile is similar: 6:15. Ok. It isn’t horrible, but I want to do better.

But now there is only one more mile to go. I can go a little faster now that I’m almost there. And then there’s only half a mile to go — and then I hear footsteps. Hmm! incentive? I figure that if Jen passes me, I won’t try to pass her back, but she’s going to have to work to pass me. I speed up a bit. But the footsteps get louder and louder. Hmm. Jen wasn’t that noisy. Maybe she’s gotten sloppy as she has tired? And then the footsteps pass me and — it’s Ricky.

Well I’m not going to let him pass me, but his kick is better than mine, and I can’t catch him. Then someone else passes me. Damn it. I am not going slowly, in fact I’m going faster than I was. Why is everyone passing me. Sigh. I just have no kick. I can speed up by 10 seconds, and that’s a lot for me, but Ricky is much faster than I over short distances — like 5Ks — while I’m already running almost as fast as I ever can.

Almost done now. No footsteps behind, but I must assume than Jen isn’t far back (I’ve heard people cheer her on all along — as #2 woman she gets more cheers than #16 man). I’m breathing like a steam engine, I’ve got to stop. I keep going. I’ve drolled all down my chin. And here’s the chute, I see 1:02:05 on the clock (great, I’m faster than 6:15 pace) and then the finish line. (1:02:09)

I can stop.

And eleven seconds later here’s Jen.

And now it is possible to introduce ourselves better. She’s from San Diego. Rats. It has been a pleasure to run with her. I explain why I didn’t stop for water.

I find I am 5th place in my age group. No other age-group runs that deep in age-graded percentages. Even absolutely — I would have been first place in the the 40-44 group. They are the guys younger than I who should be running faster? That just doesn’t seem fair. Why are so many of the really fast guys my age?

So my first half was 31:10 (6:14.5 pace), the second half 30:59 (6:11.8). Reverse splits. I usually don’t manage that. Thank you Jen. Thank you Ricky. I really feel I raced today (as opposed to just running fast).

And even more cheering — I ran this at a slightly faster pace than the 15k this summer. The weather was better today, but it’s a slightly longer race — so it’s roughly comparable. I’ve been so afraid, since September, that I’d never again be as good as I was last year. It’s a relief to have proof that I was wrong.

Jeff is a minute and a half behind me. And now that doesn’t seem like anything. I’ve barely started talking to Jen, and he’s here. And Kent finishes a minute later. Time dilates oddly. During the race a minute and a half is so far ahead that the people are invisible, afterwards you blink and they are crossing the line.

Andrea turns out to have been ill. She points out there will be other races.

Stu Sherman tells me some of the faster people had to wait for a train to cross the tracks in Montecito. Whew. I’m glad I’m not that fast

I cool down with Kent for four miles, and we chat about the race. I am so pleased. I can run fast again (and it’s a two minute PR too).

Yay!

Pre Race Jitters

I threw my back out night before last. In my sleep. Few people have mastered the art of injuring themselves in bed, but I am learning.

I haven’t run well since last September, when I ran myself into overtraining.

I wasn’t able to run the marathon I planned in October.

Then I did the half marathon in November and was almost a minute slower than the year before. Exactly the decline the age-graded tables predicted. Obviously I would only run more slowly from now on.

When I did a marathon in Dec I had to scale my goal way back — and then I failed to make even that.

In January I tore my glut after running the resolution races at a moderate pace.

I couldn’t even run for a month.

Then I got achilles tendinitis.

I didn’t run Orchard to Ocean well.

My easy runs were very slow. My track and tempo workouts were also slow compared to what I used to do.

Everyone else seems to be doing so well. All kinds of people passed me at Orchard to Ocean; people whom I have, in the past, been in front of.

A week ago I noticed that my easy runs had become faster. Naturally. Was I starting to feel better? But the tempo run was still slow and that’s what matters.

The 10 miler is tomorrow. I should be sleeping. Instead I’m writing this and worrying. Can I run 10 miles at the pace I had trouble running 4 last week-end?

I’m done now. I hope I’m done feeling sorry for myself and done with apprehention too. Maybe that will help me sleep. Good-night.

One hundred years of 26.2

The 2008 Olympics marks the hundredth anniversary of the peculiar choice of 26.2miles for the marathon.

It’s rather interesting how that distance was chosen, I’d like to tell you about it. Are you all sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin.

The Greek Olympic games started in 776BCE and lasted until 393CE. As with the modern games they were held every 4 years.

The games were not open to women (who weren’t even allowed to watch), but there was a similar set of athletic contests for unmarried women.

There was no marathon race. There were really only four footraces, though the specifics varied over the centuries: a 1 stade sprint which went from one end of the stadium to the other (~192m), a diaulos sprint (2 stade, ~380m, where the runners went back and forth turning at a post), a long distance race, dolichos, which was anywhere from 7 to 24 stade (1.3km~4.6km), and finally a 2~4 stade run in full armor (which weighed about 50 lb).

The Roman Emperor Theodosius forbade pagan cults in 393CE and thus ended the games of antiquity. [†]

Heroditus tells us that when the Persians invaded Greece in 490BCE, the Athenians sent the runner Pheidippides to Sparta to request aid (~150miles), later, when the battle was won, a runner ran from the battle site at Marathon to Athens to report the good news (this runner is often said to be Pheidippides though Heroditus does not name him).

The Olympic games were revived in 1896; with the first one held in Athens to honor the ancient tradition. The organizers decided to finish the games with a long distance race from Marathon to Athens, a distance of about 40km (roughly 25 miles), the race was won with a time of 2:58. This was the first marathon.

The first Boston marathon was on 19 April 1897, the course was 24.5miles long (a little shorter than the Olympic distance) and 15 people ran it. This race was won with a 2:55 time. [†]

The marathon was not a set distance in the early years, it was roughly 40km, but each course was different.

In 1908 the Olympics were held in London, the race was originally designed to be ~25 miles long. It started near Windsor castle and ended at the Stadium in Shepherd’s Bush. The Princess of Wales requested that the start of the race be moved so that her children could watch. This added a mile to the course. Then Queen Alexandria wanted the end of the race moved so that she would get the best view of it. This added 385 yards to the course. (I think I would have been quite annoyed to discover that the race I intended to run was 5% longer than I expected, ah well, one of the last instances of the use of the royal prerogative I presume).

The winner of the 1908 marathon was not the first to cross the finish line. Dorando PIETRI entered the stadium first, but was so disoriented he ran the wrong way around the track; the umpires redirected him, but then he fell, and fell 3 or 4 more times and had to be helped. He finished with a time of 2:54:46 (where the last 385 yards took ~10 minutes), John Hayes won with a time of 2:55:18 (Dorando was disqualified because he needed help to finish). [†]

After the London Olympics, the Polytechnic Harriers of London created the Polytechnic Marathon (in London), it was the next marathon to chose 26miles 385yards as its standard distance. It was run annually in from 1909 until 1996. The first running was on 26 May 1909 and the winning time was 2:42:31. [†]

In 1912 the Olympic marathon distance was 40.2km (24.98miles), in 1920 it was 42.75km (26.56miles). (in 1916 there were no Olympics because of World War I)

In 1924 the Olympic distance was standardized to the 1908 distance [†]. Boston changed its course that year, but the new distance was still too short, and Boston was not the standard distance until 1927. [†]

Women were first (officially) allowed to run Boston in 1972 (3:10:26)[†], in the Polytechnic in 1978 (2:54:11)[†], while the first Olympic woman’s marathon was Los Angeles in 1984 (2:24:52).[†]

Boston started requiring qualifying times in 1970. At first the requirement was that all runners be able to run faster than 4 hours. At some later point an age-graded system was put in place. In 2002 the age-graded system was amended to make it attract more older runners (the qualifying times for runners 45years+ were increased). [†]

New moon?

… The moon is nothing
But a circumambulating aphrodisiac
Divinely subsidized to provoke the world
Into a rising birth-rate

The Lady’s not for Burning
Christopher Fry

The moon was new last night, which meant there was a chance of seeing a very slim crescent moon in the first few minutes after sunset — and possibly seeing the rest of the moon, the part the sun can’t reach, faintly lit by earthlight. Only a chance, the moon sets 5~10 minutes after the sun today, and being such a thin crescent it will be very dim and easily obscured.

So I went for a beach walk at sunset.

Well… The moon is an excuse really, I go out to watch the sunset most Sundays.

And to watch the ocean, and the birds.

Usually the sand on the beach migrates away for the winter and returns in the spring, and today the sand is still sparse and the beach quite steep. There seems to be a fair amount of surf which gives the waves a chance to show off and break impressively against the rocks uncovered by the winter storms.

And the light is nice right before sunset.

The sanderlings are out today, doing their little dance with the water — chasing the wave as it recedes, probing hurriedly into the wet sand, and then running from the next wave in a futile effort to keep their feet dry. Silly little things. Their legs move so fast… (I wish I had their turnover

The sun is burning a path into the sand for me to follow (the moon is yet invisible), and follow it I do.

Everyone else seems to have the same idea and we all walk into the setting sun.

The evening is hazy. I fear the moon will not show her face. But a hazy evening with occasional clouds gives more color to the sunset even while it obscures the moonset. So not all is lost.

I watch a little longer, but there is no sign of a moon.

Three months ago, the sun set well out to sea. Now it is setting over UCSB, and in a few more months it will be behind the mountains and out of sight. As close as Santa Barbara comes to seasons.

Then I head back home. Along with everyone else on the beach.

The quality of light has changed now, the world no longer glows, but if I look behind there is an ember in the west.

The sanderlings are still playing their eternal game with the waves, and a pair of plovers have joined in, but without the same zest — the legs of the sanderlings move so rapidly — the plovers look clumsy in comparison.

Ahead the trees on the wilcox bluffs are fading into the evening’s mist.

I pass a man with his head down talking into his cell-phone. How can he deaden himself that way? Here he is, surrounded by fading beauty and his attention is fixed on a small piece of plastic. The crashing of the waves, the calling of the birds are just annoyances to him, they mean he can’t hear the phone.

Why do we do this to ourselves? Surrounded by beauty we chose to focus on something ugly.

Yuck.

I think this is the same reaction I have to iPods and such. I live in Santa Barbara. It is a beautiful place, why would I want to drown out all the natural world, why avoid all the beauty? Why run with an iPod?

Now if I went for a walk, or a run, in downtown Los Angeles, that might be a different matter, I might be glad to stifle the sounds of the cars, and obscure the grime of that smoggy city. But I live somewhere beautiful, I walk in beautiful places, I run into beauty. I want to enjoy it.

I find it sad, a sign of sickness in our culture, that so many of us will huddle over our cell-phone and not look behind to see the sunset.

Don’t Race like This!

As Boston approaches, I keep thinking of my first marathon.

I did almost everything wrong.

I was living in Boston in early ‘92, had been living there for three years and was about to move to Santa Barbara. A friend of mine, Carl, decided to run the Boston Marathon. He hadn’t qualified or anything, he just decided to run it. He had a personal trainer come out to his house daily to run with him, the trainer was going to run the marathon too, also without qualifying. Every now and then Carl would suggest that I join him.

Finally, about a week or two before the marathon, I thought “Why not? I’m leaving Boston, I won’t have a chance like this again, and it will be interesting to see if I can do it.

I didn’t know you had to register. So I didn’t. I did know there was a qualifying time, but since Carl hadn’t qualified I assumed it didn’t matter much.

I hadn’t trained either.

Oh, I hadn’t been sedentary. During the winter I often couldn’t ride my bike (what with snow and ice and all) so I would frequently run one way to work (~8miles) and take the car the other way (leaving the car at work overnight sometimes). But I hadn’t really trained. I hadn’t raced since high-school — and even then the longest I’d done was ~3mile road race that we called “cross-country”. I was a little worried.

So, on the Saturday, 9 days before the race, I went out for a thirty mile run. I managed it, so now I was confident that I could run the distance. A week later, 2 days before the race, I did another 30 mile run.

I didn’t know you were supposed to taper.

I’d never heard of carbo-loading.

Monday, 20 April, dawned, and it was cold. So I put on some long corduroy pants and a button down shirt. Carl picked me up and we drove out to Hopkinton. Carl was in running shorts. I thought he’d get cold. I didn’t have any running gear in those days, I ran in my street clothes.

We got to the start and went to stand in line. I went to the back, Carl and his trainer put themselves further up (after all, they had been training).

It was cold, even in long pants.

The gun went off.

Nothing happened.

For a long time, nothing continued to happen.

Finally we started walking — slowly.

We were still walking when we got to the start line. There were no chips in those days, but I did start my own watch. We were a mile out before I was able to start running. Rusty recommends using the first mile as a warm up, but I think a walking pace is a bit extreme.

After a bit I was entranced by the sound. I was in the middle of a huge throng of people, tightly packed and I heard — footfalls. I felt I had a purpose that I shared with all those around me, and the sound our feet made affirmed that.

There were no gel-packs then, I remember the joy I felt at about mile 20 where someone passed out orange quarters. But it really never occurred to me that it might be wise to eat on the course. I’d never eaten when I raced the mile in high-school, why should I expect to eat in a longer race?

When I could see the finish line I started running faster, and passed quite a few people in the last quarter mile or so. I went through the chute and stopped my watch 3:29:06. The woman who was there to help the runners took one look at me and said “You didn’t run this, get out of here.” Being too bewildered and exhausted to contradict her, I got.

I assume not many people race in street clothes, and as I didn’t have a bib I was obviously not a real runner.

Now was the hard part. I had to find Carl, since he was my ride home. It was cold, I didn’t have any money to buy food. Carl hadn’t finished yet. I waited. An hour. More. Finally he showed up. His wife drove us home and I soaked in a hot bath for a long time.

The next day, I got on a plane for LA and then SB. I was amused that everyone else on the plane seemed to have the same trouble walking that I did.

Mistakes not to make again:

• Qualify
• Register
• Train
• Taper
• Don’t run 30 miles two days before a marathon
• Don’t wear street clothes
• Now-a-days, take some gel packs with you and do some form of carbo-loading.
• Don’t cross the finish-line looking like someone who could not possibly have raced, or you’ll get kicked out of the finish area without food and without a mylar blanket.
• Don’t wait for someone who is an hour and a half slower than you if it’s cold and you are hungry.

I feel that I made it up to Boston in 2006. I qualified in 2005, and registered for the 2006 Boston marathon, but got injured and could not run it. So I have qualified, have registered, have trained, and have run it. I just qualified after I ran it.

The Boston website says the qualifying times must be run after a certain date — but it doesn’t explicitly say it must be before the race

But… Where’s the Orchard?

Orchard to Ocean, 2008

I set out on the bike at 5:30. It was dark. And cold. It’s ~16 miles to Carpenteria Main School and I wanted to be there at 7 to register and warm up. And I wanted to travel easily on the bike and not burn up all my glycogen.

There was a full moon setting in the west. Ah, of course, the day before easter, the day after the vernal equinox, the moon must be well nigh full.

The moon is at my back though, I rarely see it. The cold gets into my fingers and toes. They go numb by the time I’ve gone 5 miles. Summerland, at 10 miles is warmer, and the extremities start to thaw, but after a mile or two the road drops down to the Polo field and it gets cold again. Well, it will probably warm up with the sun, and even if it does not, once I start running I’ll be fine.

Many orchid and other flower farms, but I pass no orchard.

It’s lighter now. There seems to be an awful lot of traffic leaving Carp, on the frontage road (not the freeway) at 6:40am. Where on earth are they all going this early on a Saturday morning, and why aren’t they on the freeway?

When I get to the school it is definitely light.

They have maps inside showing the course route. Hmm. It’s rather different from when I last did it — good heavens — five years ago. I had intended to run the 5K loop as a warm up, and here’s even more reason to do so — I don’t want to get lost. Not that I’ll be in front.

And there’s Shiggy, well no chance of being first in my division either :-).

The map says go out Palm to 4th street and turn left. Unfortunately 4th St. does not really exist here; there is an unnamed road inside the State Beach, perhaps that’s it? There is no chalk arrow to mark the turn though, and it means running the wrong way over some tire-shredders, so I decide I must be lost already, and I go back, and try to recreate the start from 5 years ago.

I forget the route after the first few turns and spend a pleasant time wandering the dead ends of suburban Carp. When I come out on Carp Ave, I see Aaron who assures me of the turn into the park, even without chalk, even going the wrong way over tire-rippers.

We get back to the school (which is not an orchard in any way shape or form), and I have to decide how many layers to wear. It’s much warmer than it was, but still feels a bit nippy. Hmm. I’ll bet I’ll only need a singlet once we get going. But I’ll take gloves to keep my hands warm. But when I reach the start line I think even the gloves may be too much — some friends are complaining about cold hands, and I try to palm the gloves off on them — with no luck.

I do my strides.
We line up.
No, says Paul (who starts us), the line is here. We all move forward a yard.
“Two minutes.”
“One minute.”
“Ready” (we all crouch down with our fingers on our watches)
“Go”

And we’re off. About 10 people are ahead of me. I see Monica’s back and figure I can run with her (much later, at the finish line, I realize that it wasn’t Monica’s back after all, it was Andrea whom I do not know, and who is faster than Monica). Fred passes me. Oh, well, with him here no chance of second place in the division either.

N’importe.

No one’s foot is punctured by the tire-destroyers, and there are now volunteers there to show us the route (but no chalk, I wonder why not?). We run through the State Beach. The Carp Slough has formed a lagoon which does not open into the ocean. A calm spot where birds float as we thunder past over the bridge.

I’m impressed at how fast Monica is running. I thought I was faster at the moment. I guess not.

At the end of the parking lot we’re on a trail. Finally some chalk. Little white dots showing us where to go. We come to a road and turn up onto it. Such a pity, 5 years ago we ran out on the bluffs here, but I’m told that the city only lets us to cross the RR tracks on roads, and I guess I can see why they’d insist on that.

Crossing RR tracks is always dicey in a race course — the freight trains seem to have no schedule, and the passenger trains only a nominal one. You never know, there might be a train just when you need to cross. You can lose a lot of time to a long, slow-moving freight. And trains cannot stop for runners as cars will.

Today: No train.

At the 1 mile mark I look down. 5:50. Oh dear. That’s too fast for me. Certainly today. I’d said I was going to treat this as a tempo run and go out at a sedate 6:24 pace. Somehow that didn’t happen. But even if I’m racing I’ll need to slow down. I’ll have to drop back from Monica. And then Martin passes me.

We follow the unfortunately named “Dump Road” to Carp Ave, and turn onto that (Damn it, why are there cars parked in our lane? Oh. It’s City Hall, doubtless they don’t care about runners) to the Bluffs’ park, and then we turn back to the ocean. A lovely view of the Islands, well mostly of Santa Cruz Island, though later I do catch a peak of Anacapa.

And here’s the two mile mark. 6:26. Erp. That’s too slow. I’ve given up on the tempo idea, I was hoping to do better. I notice with amusement that though I have dropped back from Monica’s back, and Martin’s, I haven’t dropped back by much. They’ve slowed too. That’s some consolation.

“Correopsis has set in!” The Secret Life of Walter Mitty

And we make a sharp turn (through fine white sand that shifts under our feet, not what I want for a turn) to run along the bluffs. I can’t really see the ocean now, the purple sage, in full bloom, and some mounding yellow daisy are blocking my views

But then, from behind one large shrub, a view opens up, and there are the cliffs dropping down into the sea, with the morning mist hazing the distant ones. When I first ran this course, this view just stunned me, it’s the main reason I love this race.

But all too soon we turn away from the ocean (years before we went along the edge for much further and then scrambled up an wonderful, steep hill on which I passed two people. But no hill today, nor do I pass anyone). Back to the main road, and then we dive once more into the shrubbery (Nee!), and here’s the 3 mile mark. 6:34? Ug. I had intended to speed up, not slow down. At this rate I might not even break 40 minutes. I’m in worse shape than I thought.

Still Monica’s back isn’t that far in front, so she’s slowed too. And Martin and Ricky and Shana. Onward.

On into the brush. Hmm. Why haven’t I seen anyone returning? I’d have thought Aaron would have turned back by now. But then it isn’t Aaron, it’s someone I don’t recognize. And then Aaron, with Fred number 4. And then I’m turning. And there’s someone behind me, and Jeff passes me. Sigh. And when mile 4 comes up I see 6:27. Well, no wonder. That’s quite discouraging. And now Monica’s back pulls further away. I seem to have lost heart.

At mile 5 I see 6:12. Well, that’s a surprise. I guess it’s downhill. But even though I’ve actually sped up, the people ahead of me have sped up more.

And the ones behind too; someone else passes me. And then Joe Hilton does. We’re on the road now. Dull. At mile 6, 6:13. And then round the corner, and there’s the finish. A final burst, and I see the time ticking down 38:56, 38:57… I’m sure I’ll end up with 39:02 or something, but no, for once the second drops on my side and I sneak past at 38:59.

And then I see “Monica”’s face, and she isn’t Monica at all. How could I have confused her with Monica? She doesn’t look a bit like her. I guess I’m not very good at recognizing backs. I discover she’s Andrea.

I head for the food. But it’s all wrapped up, and they aren’t ready for people yet, and they don’t want me to pick things up with my hands. It’s not worth fighting, I’ve got my own food at the bike. Ah, the bagels aren’t protected. I grab one (they tell me I shouldn’t have). It’s stale. Well water is the most important thing. Where’s the water? Big jugs of something. Coffee??!! What stupid idiot puts a diuretic out for people who need to rehydrate? Another large jug with McDonald’s stamped on the side. I’m not trusting that. Oh. Here. A tiny 6oz individually packaged thing of bottled water in a tub of ice. I don’t really want cold water either, it’s harder to absorb cold than warm. I’ll find a water fountain.

Grumble. What’s gotten into people? Why this recent set of over-the-top sanitary rules? They just make this whole race recovery process so uninviting that I’m repelled.

Food at the bike, and water too. Change out of light trainers for normal running shoes. Get rid of the gloves.

I’ve got a 6mile cool down to run. I might as well run the course again, but this time I’ll spend more on the bluffs and cross the tracks on a trail.

When I get back to the start/finish line there is the real Monica. How could I have confused her with Andrea?

And there is Fred taking off for his cooldown, so I run with him for a bit, but he turns back and I continue.

I don’t go up Dump Road, I continue on the bluffs. Tide looks quite high, crashing against the base of the cliffs, I look for harbor seals but see none here. Then on, past the Venco oil dock, and there, on the other side is the seal sanctuary. It’s the birthing season just now, and I pause at an outlook.

There’s a couple here already, looking down at the seals. They point out two new pups. There’s still a bit of beach below, one of the pups has clambered up it and found a comfy spot, but each time a wave passes over him, he gets washed away and has to clamber up again. It’s a struggle for him, he’s very small.

A larger seal flops up onto the beach, and those already there are disturbed and there’s some flapping of flippers. The couple comment they’ve not seen seals fighting before. I hadn’t realized it was a fight, but I’ll take their word for it.

The couple ask me if the race is over. They have a big hand-held stop sign so I assume they must be race volunteers, and thank them for helping out. It turned out they were seal volunteers, and the stop sign is to keep noisy intruders and dogs away from the seals and the cliff edge.

I see a Western Grebe in the ocean. A pelican, floating calmly on the waves some distance out looks like a great boat in comparison. A cormorant zips past.

A greater wave splooshes onto the beach and all the seals arc their backs, noses up, foot flippers up, they seem to form a perfect circular arch. I wish I could do as well when I try that pose in yoga.

But I can’t stay here all day, or shouldn’t anyway. I’ve got miles to go before I sleep.

So I head away from the bluffs, and cross the tracks (at the old location) and run on the path under the Eucalyptus allée. Hunh. I’d be willing to risk crossing the train tracks here, it’s a much nicer route.

But now I can’t find a path that would lead out to the hill I recall. Sigh. I gather there is no longer a trail in that direction.

Ah well, I’m back on the new course, and just follow that again. Out, and then back.

Shortly after the 5K turn-around (well on my way back) I start passing my some 5K walkers (the 5K race started about when I began my cooldown). And at the final turn before the finish line the corner volunteer cheers me on. I find I’m, well, insulted, that he thinks I could take over an hour to run a 5K, can’t he tell from my pace that I’m going faster (much faster, even on my cooldown) than that?

But I have my bib on, and no one else seems to have run the course twice, so I guess it’s the obvious assumption.

Silly me.

I get back to the school, and I hear them announcing the results, so I wander over. I see my friends in a clump on the grass and go sit with them. I find I didn’t even get third in my division, I was fourth. Oh well.

Back to the bike, and then the farmers’ market.

(The ocean was lovely, but I never even saw the orchard).

---

I spoke to Dan Cornet, who has always helped organize Orchard to Ocean. He tells me that when the race was first run it started up in the foothills amid orchards, but they moved the start. So like Roses to La Playa the name no longer reflects the current race. Maggie suggested “Pedrogosa to La Playa” for that, which alliterates, so perhaps “School to Sea” would work here?

Dan also tells me that there is no race director for next year, and some doubt as to whether the race will continue. Saying “I hope someone turns up.” seems a bit superficial, as it begs the question of why I’m not that someone.

Hmm.

Dark

In winter I get up at night
And dress by yellow candle-light.
In summer quite the other way,
I have to go to bed by day.

A Child’s Garden of Verses, Robert Louis Stevenson

Stevenson lived before daylight savings though.

I used to like daylight savings time — my father would let me run barefoot after the change. My computer friends, who tend to arise “at the crack of noon”, are all in favor of it.

I’ve come to hate it. At least in March. In May it’s ok, I guess.

By the beginning of March the winter darkness is dissipating, and when I do my morning run at 6 or so it is light again. And then comes daylight savings time and bang! it’s pitch black again at 6.

I suppose it could be worse. During World War II the Germans decided that France should be in CET rather than GMT. This means that France (and Spain) is always at least one hour off from solar time, and is two hours off in the summer. England also had “Double Summer Time” during the war, but they came to their senses afterward.

But it’s  pitch black now when I start my runs. I worry about being seen if I run on the roads, I worry about my footing if I run on trails.

It is pitch black as I start my run a little before 6. The stars are shining. No cars are on the road today. By 6:15 there is a faint light toward the east. When runners pass me I can’t see their faces. By 6:30 the eastern sky is blue and low lying clouds are black, but the western sky is still black. I no longer worry about my footing. By 6:45 there’s a tinge of yellow to the east, and I have no problem seeing people. By 7:00 it is reasonably light out. I see the sun for the first time at 7:25.

When I did a track work-out I couldn’t see my watch until just before 7. The watch does have a light, but when I’m running hard, pressing the button is difficult and focusing on a dim, jiggling set of numbers seems beyond my eye’s abilities (I have no problems when running slowly, but when I’m running at 10K pace or faster I just can’t focus. Maybe I need better glasses. Or better eyes).

Why do we have DST? I thought the theory was that it saved energy, but there seem to be as many studies saying it doesn’t as there are saying it does.

It certainly messes up my life in March.

I look forward to May…

Google?

Some time ago I got an email from a recruiter at google asking me to send a resumé. That was rather flattering. I checked with some computer friends and found that some of them had also received this request — I guess the recruiter did a web search for likely people working on open source projects — or something.

Less flattering.

A couple of months later, after I’d mostly forgotten the original event, I got another email asking if I would set up a phone interview to apply for a job in internationalization.

I don’t know much about internationalization. Come to think of it, I’m not sure that any of my skills would be useful to google. I know nothing about searching, databases, etc. I know the HTT protocol and can frame a request, but doubtless google solved that problem years ago.

I tried to explain this to them, and that I didn’t really want to leave SB. Still it might prove interesting, I’ve made font-editors for 10 years now, perhaps it is time for a change. If a gift job drops in my lap I should at least look it in the mouth, so I gave them a time to call me.

I went through the phone interview. Rather liked the process. The guy interviewing me (an engineer, not a PR drone) asked good questions about what I’d done, and then posed a computer problem for me to solve that proved interesting. At the end he asked if I had any questions.

Well, yes, I had a couple. Most important: What, specifically, was the job? To my amazement, he could not tell me. To me this was an extremely important question. Why should I leave my current work, which I rather enjoy (even if it doesn’t pay) to go do something I don’t think I’m even qualified for? I wanted to say “Convince me that what you are offering me is interesting and worthwhile.” But he couldn’t.

Second question: The job was said to be located in either Zürich or Mountain View, Ca. I don’t speak German (and I gather zürichdeutsch is vastly different from the smattering of German I’ve picked up) any chance the job could be in Geneva (I do speak reasonable French)? The guy I was talking to didn’t seem to think so. Well could I telecommute from Santa Barbara? “Oh,” he said, “We have an office in Irvine, I’m sure you could work there instead.” That’s certainly consoling.

Two weeks later I had another phone interview. Similar procedure. Again the guy I spoke to couldn’t tell me what the job would entail. He told me what he was doing, which sounded quite dull, and said it might be something like that. Eventually he asked me what I would like to do.

This seemed to me the wrong question. I was already doing what I would like to do. I didn’t ask for a job at google, they contacted me. It’s up to them to come up with something interesting if they want to attract me.

Then I did get a call from a PR person who wanted to talk to me about “Google’s interview process.” I wasn’t in the least interested in the interview process. I was slightly annoyed with them too. There was a certain arrogance about them, as if they were doing me a favor in talking to me. Every email I got from them had the title “Google!”, with an exclamation point, as though it were the most amazing thing ever.

But they had said almost nothing which I found interesting. They had given me no reason to work for them.

None-the-less I phoned back. They had twigged to the fact that I wasn’t very interested. And I was told that I’d have to move to Mountain View if I wanted to work for them. I thought I’d made it clear from the start that I didn’t want to do that. I guess not.

The woman said she’d make my resumé inactive.

I keep coming back to the fact that they approached me, yet acted as though I were petitioning them. I can’t understand why they made no effort to convince me that working for them would be better than doing what I currently do. Actually, I find it rather insulting.

An acquaintance who works at google said “You must understand that yours was a special situation and you must make allowances.” Wrong. The “special situation” was caused by google, so they must make the allowances. And since several of my friends have been in the same “special situation”, I do wonder just how “special” it is?